


my heart is buried in venice

by lizwillstealyourgirl



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Dead May Parker (Spider-Man), Hurt/Comfort, I Blame Tumblr, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Light Angst, Mentions of Cancer, Minor Character Death, Past Character Death, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker has ADHD, SO MANY TAGS!!, Sad with a Happy Ending, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, is it even a happy ending?, just warning you about that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-11-18 23:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18127943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizwillstealyourgirl/pseuds/lizwillstealyourgirl
Summary: snapshots into peter parker’s life as he navigates through mourning and moving forward.[ alt: five times someone looks out for peter, and one time he looks out for someone else ]** beta read and updated





	my heart is buried in venice

**Author's Note:**

> hey just so you know!!! >>>  
> \- may died in june, diagnosed w/ terminal cancer in march  
> \- infinity war happened but. like. Way Differently. basically, it’s all the same up to the part with stupid starlord. drax holds peter quill back and so the plan actually Works and then. idk i’m not a movie writer but the rest of just,,,,, does its thing!
> 
> minor warnings i forgot to add:  
> \- death? this is all about peter moving forward after may's death  
> \- he throws up (not explicit cuz. yuck)  
> \- anxiety sorry  
> \- this is just...pretty sad...theres plenty of that classic Self Deprecating peter parker bullshit here baby!
> 
> ps: this was sort of inspired by the song "my heart is buried in venice" by ricky montgomery. i also mention the song "spanish harlem" at one point, which refers specifically to the recording by aretha franklin! <3

* * *

**_one: august thirteenth, two thousand and eighteen._ **

 

There was this constricting sort of feeling Peter would get whenever he thought about May. That wound was still fresh; only two months had passed since May-

 

-well,  _anyway,_  sometimes Peter couldn’t breathe all that well, and most of the time, he would experience those constrictions during some  _very_ inconveniently timed situations. Once, MJ was telling Ned and Peter about some article she read, and across the street, Peter saw -  _cross his heart and hope to die_ \- a nurse who looked  _exactly_ like May; all of a sudden, Peter was on the ground, blinking away the flashes of fog in his eyes, and MJ had her arms wrapped around his chest, and Ned was on the phone with  _Tony Tony Tony_ and Peter tasted bile in the back of his throat.

 

So, sometimes, Peter couldn’t breathe. _Whatever_ \- everyone does that sometimes, right?  _Right?_

 

Apparently not; as soon as  _that_ happened - well, more like:  _as soon as_   _Tony found about every other time that_ that  _had happened_ \- Peter was sent to therapy. Every Thursday afternoon, after school, Happy would pick up Peter and drag him to some stuffy office, where Peter had to talk about feelings and other dumb things, all while trying not to gag. But therapy wasn’t  _s_ _o_ bad: Peter  _did_ feel better afterwards, almost always, even if he would never admit it. Sometimes, even Tony would join, per Peter’s therapist’s request; they’d  _all_ talk about how to deal with the  _everything_ concerning Peter.

 

But therapy could only solve so much. Sure, he had superior coping mechanisms, but in the end,  _nothing_ could ever make all of his pain go away. And, because of that, some nights, Peter would grieve himself into sickness, curled over the toilet seat; almost always, he was alone. He was too afraid to tell Tony, for a long time, for no good reason at all. But, it’s one night that he’s not so very alone anymore.

 

That day had been just as bad as  _every other day_ since May was diagnosed, way back in march. But, back in march, on the worst days, Peter still _had_  May; now, though, in the late summer nights, Peter had no one. (Sure, he had Tony, but he didn’t know  _how_ to have Tony, or  _how_ to love him, and  _how_ could he when  _everyone he loves dies?_ ) It was the third day back to school, and an immensely  _bad_ day: Flash was a dick, as always (he didn’t even falter when May died, but then again, she didn’t pass until summer started. Peter wondered if Flash even  _knew;_  in some ways, he was grateful that there was at least  _one thing_ in the world that didn’t change after May), and school was stressful as fuck, as always, and Tony was  _sort of_ absent and  _sort of_ awkward and  _sort of_ \- really - hard to talk to (at this point, they just didn’t know each other all that well). When Peter got back to the tower -  _home_ , he corrected, but that word still felt foreign in his mind or on his tongue - he rushed straight into his room, threw his bag on his bed, and stumbled towards his bathroom. Peter fell straight down to his knees, and hurled violently, sobbing and shaking as his head throbbed. He heaved, over and over and over, and felt some angry sort of guilt carving out his stomach -  _I_ _should’ve saved her,_ he thought.  _What’s the point in being Spider-Man if I couldn’t even save her?_ \- for what felt like hours, but was probably only a few minutes.

 

It was just then that a gentle hand rested on his back, rubbing soothingly. “There, there, Pete,” the attached voice mumbled, “I’ve got you. Let it out, son.” Peter, whose cries had only just faded into whimpering, began to sob and shake as feverishly as before. Absently, he noticed it was Colonel Rhodes comforting him, whispering sweet encouragements in Peter’s ears as he retched into the toilet. Peter trembled,  _of course he did,_ but the soft, rhythmic motion on his back and shoulders brought him some sort of relief, and it was only a couple of minutes more before his stomach was settled, and his throat stopped choking him.

 

“Thank you, Mr. Rhodey,” he said, softly, almost inaudibly. “Thank you.” The colonel only shushed him, and continued to rub his back gently. After only a moment, once Peter was positive he wouldn’t throw up again, he whirled around and squeezed his arms around Colonel Rhodes’ waist. Though surprised, Rhodes wrapped his strong arms around Peter’s shoulders, and pulled him in tight.

 

Hours later, when Peter was deep asleep, Rhodes walked into Tony’s lab to warn him about the sickness caused by Peter’s mourning. Tony had no idea, and neither, really, did Rhodes, until he had seen a certain greenish-looking kid jog into his room, and until he heard the sounds of sobbing and retching through the door he’d placed his ear against. Tony, of course, cried - maybe even wailed - at the newfound information; he heaved in the same, angry sort of way that Peter had, and Rhodes laid the same comforting hand on Tony’s back as had been laid on Peter’s, and rRhodes, underneath his calm and collected appearance, was just as  _sick_ as Tony and Peter. Peter  _deserved_ his aunt, he  _deserved_ his uncle, he  _deserved_ a family, a happy ending,  _and_ an easy fucking life: he  _certainly_ didn’t deserve his two parents to die, then be raised by two new parents who  _also_ died, and then live with a man whose name was in the dictionary in bold below the word  _emotionally constipated_. Rhodes was  _just as fucking sick_ as Peter and Tony, because goddamn, if  _Peter_ didn’t deserve everything good in the world,  _nobody_  did.

 

* * *

 

**_two: november twenty second, two thousand and eighteen_ **

 

Thanksgiving used to be May’s favorite holiday. Peter liked it too, but mostly  _because M_ ay liked it. Whereas Peter liked Christmas - or even Halloween - much more, May loved Thanksgiving. To her, it was all about family, completely uncorrupted by capitalism, unlike Christmas, and certainly less freaky than Halloween. To Peter, it was just a holiday, but to May, it was the  _best_ holiday.

 

Firstly, May adored the weather. In New York, November was rainy and gross - not as much as spring was, but still, Peter  _hated_ the rain,  _hated_ how it was wet and cold and sad. On the other hand, May loved it; she loved the puddles, wherever you drove or walked, the thunder, the clouds, the sound of pitter-pattering on metal rooftops. Where it made peter sick, it made May bubbly and joyous.

 

Second, it was a perfect excuse to take a day off work, curl up on the couch, and watch a movie with Peter. Back when Ben was around, the three of them would  _always_ watch  _Star Wars_ , since it was Peter’s favorite. Sometimes, usually when Peter started to doze off, Ben would turn on some nerdy documentary about space, and on those nights, Peter would always dream about the stars; he would imagine he was an astronaut, or an alien, who flew all the way up to the moon. maybe Ben’s one of the reasons Peter  _never_ stopped loving science.

 

May also liked the food. Before Uncle Ben died, he’d make everything, since May could  _never_ be trusted in a kitchen. Peter could faintly remember sitting on the kitchen counter, kicking his little legs, while Ben prepared the turkey, and the three of them - May was sitting just outside the room, at the table - sang along to the music playing faintly out of the crackling speaker. After Ben, though, May still wasn’t much of a cook, not like Ben was, so on Thanksgiving, they didn’t cook anymore, at least not until Peter was old enough to cook himself. For a year or two, he and May would order pizza and some Thanksgiving related foods, like mashed potatoes or green beans or whatever. Eventually, Peter kind of got sick of it, and he kind of missed the meals and the singing and the  _being together_ of it all. So, he learned to cook, and maybe  _all_ of the dishes, and it was, surprisingly enough, really good.

 

(Peter wondered if  _that’s_  why May liked Thanksgiving - because of the  _Ben_ it exuded.)

 

But without Ben - without  _M_ _ay_ \- Peter could only think:  _what’s the point?_ Without his family, without the people who  _raised him_ , what did Thanksgiving matter? Even with Tony and Pepper, the people who took him in when he had no one, he was, in some sad, ugly way, completely alone. What was Thanksgiving without May or Ben? What was  _Peter_ without them?

 

Peter remembered, vaguely, the first Thanksgiving without Ben. it was  _sad_ and  _cold._  May didn’t play any music that year, and she didn’t even try to cook - just ordered a pizza. That night, when they turned on the movies, and Peter started to fall asleep, and the sound of rain outside wrapped may up in a blanket of warmth, there was no documentary about space for Ben to put on. And then, only a few years later, his first Thanksgiving without May. Peter  _wanted_ to have fun, but he was so goddamn guilty: why should  _he_ have fun when May and Ben were dead? Peter  _desperately_ wanted to enjoy Thanksgiving, to remember Ben and May without feeling yucky and cold, but instead, holidays only tasted like metal.

 

And Tony knew this - he knew, very goddamn well, that the thought of celebrating  _anything_  without May and Ben disgusted Peter to his core. He knew that, and  _still_ , he insisted on having a big, family - the Avengers reluctantly included - Thanksgiving dinner. Everyone was invited, all the Rogues - who had been pardoned, but had yet to fully integrate back into Tony’s life - and some non-Avenger superheroes, like the Black Panther (and his family), Doctor Stephen Strange (and his sidekick, Wong), and the Guardians (but they were off in space, so it wasn’t  _really_  clear if they would attend). In any other life, Peter would over the  _moon_  at the guest list Tony had provided him with; the awful thing was that it  _wasn’t_  any other life, it was _this_  life, where Peter’s aunt died and uncle died and parents died and one time, when he was six, his fish died too. He’d seen too much death, too much sadness,  _too goddamn much._

 

But Peter didn’t say any of that when Tony told him about the plans. Instead, he had said,  _“Oh,”_ and then,  _“Okay.”_

 

And then the day came: Thanksgiving. That Thursday started with a blaring, angry alarm too close to eight in the morning. Peter, in his teenage mulishness, flipped off FRIDAY's camera, but she tattled on him, and then the clock ticked to eight when Tony stormed into the room, a laugh on his tongue. “Pete,” he scolded, with a stern voice and a mouth that twitched with the urge to smile. “Please, stop being a dick to my AI. She’s too nice.” Peter didn’t  _ever_  laugh as loud as he used to, but for a moment, he forgot it was his dead aunt’s favorite holiday, so he snorted in response.

 

Then, when that sweet sunshine faded again, Peter trudged to the kitchen, and he slumped over at the counter. With his cheek pressed up against the cold marble, and his hair falling all around him, blanketing his eyes and ears, Pepper’s sweet, melodic voice rang out next to him. “Do you want some breakfast, honey?” Peter nodded and moaned into the countertop. She rolled a bowl and spoon in front of him, and set the milk and the box of  _Lucky Charms_ \- his favorite cereal, but it was so sugary that Peter was only ever allowed to eat it on special occasions - beside them. Peter lifted his weak head, though he was dizzy and tired, and slowly, sluggishly, started to eat.

 

Rhodes walked up behind Peter and rested a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Hey, buddy,” he said, a little softly. “How’s it going?” Peter only shrugged, and pretended not to notice Pepper and Rhodes share a look that screamed,  _He’s not okay!_

 

“Honey,” Pepper whispered, and put her hand on his arm. Absently, Peter noticed how much smaller hers was than his. “It’s okay to be upset. It’s your first Thanksgiving witho-”

 

“Yeah,” Peter snapped, cutting her off. “I know what day it is.” He stood abruptly, the stool he sat on screeching across the floor. “I’ll be down later if you need me or whatever.” He practically threw his dishes in the sink before stomping away.

 

The day passed as uneventfully as possible. Peter sulked in his room until noon, when Pepper asked, pleasant and kind, if he’d help her with some of the side dishes. Peter said yes, of course he did, and not only because he felt guilty that he’d lashed out at her earlier; he, deep down, missed the way he and Ben used to cook together. In his desperation, his loneliness, he traipsed back down to the kitchen and stood, hip to hip with Pepper, to mash some stupid potatoes.

 

Music played quietly - barely loud enough for anyone but Peter to hear. After a few dishes were prepared in the stillness of their home, Pepper turned the volume up slightly, only as much as necessary for her to sing along under her breath. Peter hadn’t known Pepper liked to sing. The song overhead,  _Spanish Harlem_ , didn’t rumble like the sort of music Tony enjoyed, but vibrated at a slower, gentler frequency. The guitar strings, the piano, and the percussion rippled through Peter’s veins, and Pepper tapped her bare foot softly on the floor. Peter, for a moment, pretended not to notice her humming, but as the chorus erupted, Peter sort of bounced alongside her; a weak bounce, sure, but a bounce nonetheless. Pepper turned to Peter and smiled at him when he caught her eyes.

 

By the third song, the two of them were belting out the lyrics, wooden spoons their microphones, and the pots and pans their instruments. Peter, in a haze of warmth and familiarity and love, almost forgot entirely how badly it burned in the bottom of his heart to exist without May; he didn’t forget, though, he couldn’t - deep down, far inside his chest cavity, lied the heavy reminder than he was alone.

 

At one point, Pepper asked him how he was doing. He shrugged. She didn’t push; instead, she wrapped a strong arm around his shoulder, and rested her chin on his head. He squeezed his arms around her waist - tight, like he was afraid to drift away - and let himself cry into her blouse.

 

“Peter,” she said. “It’s going to be okay,” she promised. She promised, and maybe Peter didn’t believe her, but with how badly he wanted to and how lonely he was, he nodded and said:  _“Okay”_.

 

* * *

 

**_three: december twenty fifth, two thousand and eighteen_ **

 

Christmas sort of felt ugly in Peter’s mind. Without his family, he couldn’t help but wonder -  _What was the point? Why did he care about some stupid family-centric holiday, when he didn’t have a real family anymore?_

 

The thought of unwrapping presents, of mistletoe, of Santa Claus and cookies - it all made Peter sick. He was  _sick_ : sick of the loneliness, sick of the emptiness, sick of the capitalist nature of stupid Hallmark holidays that thrived off of togetherness. When May was around, they’d make fun of Christmas together, but without her, he had no one to complain with. In the past, his favorite things about Christmas were watching bad movies while eating bad popcorn, going to see the neighborhoods that had decorated their homes from head to toe, and listening to Mariah Carey’s album,  _Merry Christmas_ , on repeat. Peter loved the days that Ned would come over, and the three of them would dress in ugly Christmas pajamas, and watch  _Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith_ \- because Peter and Ned were proud to be disgusting humans that actually,  _genuinely_ liked the prequels.

 

But without May… without his family… where’s any of the fun? Why did any of it matter?

 

For all of November and December, Ned would come over once or twice a week. But with Mopey Peter and the eery, emptiness of the tower whenever Peter’s guardians were out of town, Ned started to feel all  _cold_ and  _numb_. Eventually, he just sort of… stopped swinging by. Peter was lonely, sure, but no more than he’d always been without May. Ned and MJ both felt guilty they couldn’t visit him more, or take care of him, but what were they to do? They couldn’t fix everything - or  _anything -_  that had gone wrong for Peter that year.

 

Even then.  _Ev_ _en then._ Peter craved to feel the jitters like he used to on Christmas mornings. All he wanted was one more day, one more Christmas with May - maybe even with Ben, too. Maybe that’s why when Christmas started to come by, Peter plastered on some silly grin - fake it ‘till you make it, right? No one believed him, of  _course_ no one did, not even Tony, who was - surprisingly enough - more gullible than anyone Peter had ever known, but Peter kept pretending anyway. Christmas Eve began with Tony shaking him awake, in the quiet, early hours of the morning.

 

“Pete, buddy, we dashed you some McDonald’s,” Tony whispered.

 

“You mean  _DoorDash_?” Peter mumbled. “It’s so early, Tones,” he whined.

 

Tony laughed. “I know, but Pepper woke up early and made me get up. So now  _you_ have to too!” Peter cracked open an eye and squinted at him, in an attempt to glare. “I don’t wanna suffer alone! Please,  _please_ get up?”

 

Peter groaned, but he got up anyway.

 

The day passed smoothly, sadly, but still - sweetly. Bittersweet, of course, but sweet anyway; Happy was watching some stupid children’s movie all day, and Rhodes kept playing the stupid Christmas song from  _Alvin and the Chipmunks_ , and Tony and Pepper spent the whole day with Peter curled up in between them - for the first time in  _forever,_  it felt like Peter wasn’t an orphan: it felt like he was a son.

 

And then, the day ended, and Peter was an orphan again.

 

Despite that  _fact_ , that irrefutable claim, Peter tried to enjoy the holiday anyway. He shook away the loneliness and sadness, and tried,  _frantically,_ to feel happy again. Christmas morning was slow, unlike how it had always been with May, who would wake Peter up before the sun even rose, jumping on his bed - back with Ben, it was because  _Santa Claus came, Peter! Santa came!_ But after, it was just because she  _wanted_ to. with Tony though, no one came cheering, scrambling into his room; instead, Peter woke up in the dark, the window in his room proving that morning hadn’t come yet - maybe Peter had never even fallen asleep at all.

 

Minutes, or maybe hours passed before a single sound broke the morning silence. The sound was faint, far away, and unrecognizable: Peter wondered if it was one of the bots, or if it was Tony, blundering around in his insomnia. Soon after, there was a loud knock on Peter’s door, that startled him fully into consciousness. He sat up, the tingles on his neck creeping like spiders, and cleared his throat.

 

“Come in,” he said nervously, and the door creaked open. There, Peter was met with the gentle, squirmy faces of his best friends. He asked, “What are you guys doing here? It - it’s Christmas, shouldn’t you be, uh, home? With your family?”

 

The two of them shrugged. “We’d rather be here,” MJ said.

 

“Peter,” Ned said, sat down on the end of Peter’s bed, and laid his hand on Peter’s knee. “There is  _nowhere_ we’d rather be than here with you.”

 

It was a surprise for Peter, but apparently not for Tony, who had gotten Ned and MJ gifts too: Ned got the dorky  _Lego_ set he’d been saving up for for months, and MJ got some nerdy books and documentaries about the Harlem Renaissance, her obsession of the time. Peter got stuff too, but the thing he loved the most, maybe even  _more_ than Ned and MJ's visit, was a handwritten letter May had wrote after her diagnosis, and given to Tony for safekeeping. Stapled to the letter was a photo of Ned, MJ, May, Tony, Pepper and Peter, taken by Happy, at one of Peter’s Academic Decathlon meets. On the back of the photo, scrawled in blue, squiggly letters, read:  _3/9/18 - the Peter Protection Squad (coined by Ned)._

 

Peter cried. To his left was Tony, who had his strong arms wrapped tightly around Peter’s torso, and though Peter’s right side was empty - while the others had sat in front of the two of them, watching with sad, hopeful eyes - it almost felt like May was hugging him too.

 

* * *

 

**_four: february fourth, two thousand and nineteen._ **

 

It was, relatively speaking, a  _rough_ day; that morning, Peter had slept past his first alarm, so he was almost fifteen minutes behind schedule, and even Happy - who  _never_ woke up on time - was pissed off at Peter’s time management skills. At school, Flash gave him an immeasurable amount of shit, and of course, for the stupidest reasons in the world - at one point, Peter was apparently  _breathing too loud_ during Chemistry. Near the end of the day, during Academic Decathlon, MJ was getting (albeit, for good reason)  _extremely_ frustrated with Peter, who had, in his poorly functioning morning mind, forgotten to take his Adderall. On top of everything, it had been  _months_ since Peter had been out on patrol, and that guilt started to feel like a  _chokehold_ \- and then, after the sun had just started to set, when Peter was pacing the floor in his room, wearing out the pinkish, stringy carpet with his dirty converse, and reciting some variant of the Fibonacci Sequence - his therapist encouraged him to do so, whenever he was anxious - fucking  _Captain America_ knocked onto his bedroom door.

 

“Peter,” Captain started. “Dinner’s ready. Bruce cooked tonight.”

 

Peter laughed a little, though it was weak. “So I'd better make sure to bring extra napkins, in case he  _really_ burnt it this time?”

 

Captain didn’t smile often - he was this weird, sort of stoic creature that Peter had yet to fully understand - but his lips turned up just a little bit, just enough that Peter could see it, and said, “Maybe that would be wise.”

 

Peter was still anxious, of course he was, and somewhere in the back of his brain, the littler, angrier version of him was doing rage-fueled somersaults, shouting:  _He fucked Tony over! He betrayed him! He abandoned him!_ But Peter forced himself to quiet down his mind.  _Yes,_ what the captain did was something Peter had yet to forgive, but  _Tony_ had forgiven Steve, so Peter had to too. And anyway, his  _Can I forgive Captain?_ dilemmas allowed him to pretend the whole anxiety thing was, in fact,  _not_ occurring - so maybe there is a little good in everything.

 

Captain turned in the direction of the kitchen, and Peter followed closely behind, practically stepping on the captain’s heels. As they passed through the hallway, Peter heard FRIDAY say overhead, “Hello, Peter. Are you feeling any better?”

 

Peter thought back to when he first came home that day, how he waved at Happy, smiling and bubbly as always; how, as soon as he was out of Happy’s line of sight, a frown crinkled into Peter’s sullen features, and tears rolled down his cheeks and face; how he sulked up to his bedroom, praying to avoid everyone in the tower; how FRIDAY asked him how his day was, like she always did, like Tony programmed her to do, and how Peter didn’t lie to her like he did to Happy, and how he broke down crying as soon as he flopped down onto his bed, and how she comforted him while he begged her not to tell Tony. Peter thought back to all of that, and wondered if she was programmed to listen to him; if he asked her not to tell Tony, would she agree?

 

Peter pretended not to notice Captain raise a brow and flash a look in his direction; instead, he said to her, “Yeah, Fri, I am. Thank you for asking.”

 

He thought that moment was over - of course he did, but  _of course,_  those moments are never over, it’s that damned  _Parker Luck_ - until FRIDAY spoke again: “Your heart rate is still elevated, Peter, and your breathing is slightly labored. Would you like me to alert Mr. Stark?”

 

“No, FRIDAY,” he sighed a little, and glances over at Captain, only to catch his eye. "That’s okay.”

 

“FRIDAY-” the captain interjected- “I think you should tell Tony.” Peter only glared at the captain, a little bit betrayed.  _Well,_ he thought,  _if he could do it to Tony…_

 

And, no, it’s not on the same level at  _all,_ but Peter was mad - can you really blame him? So, he glared. And he huffed a little. And he huffed a little louder when he saw the captain roll his eyes. FRIDAY just agreed with Captain, and immediately after, through the thin wall separating the hallway and the kitchen, Peter could hear her say something along the lines of,  _Mr. Stark, I have information for you concerning Mr. Parker,_ and peter frowned at the captain, whose face hadn’t shifted at all.

 

“Why’d you do that?” he snapped, but at the deep, cold look in the captain’s eyes, he added, “Mister-uh, Captain-er, sir-”

 

The captain’s eyes softened a little, but he didn’t rest his gaze otherwise. “Tony is your guardian, Peter. I know you still...struggle...with all that’s happened this year, but-” he sighed, and shifted his focus to the wall behind Peter briefly, before looking back at him again- “you deserve to have a good guardian, and a good guardian should know this sort of thing.”

 

And, well, the thing is that Peter didn’t  _disagree_ , he didn’t disagree at all. In fact, the thing is that Peter  _absolutely_ agreed with Captain, almost a hundred percent; Tony  _did_ deserve to know. The past year  _was_ hard. and, objectively speaking,  _all_ kids - and maybe that included Peter, but that’s the part Peter didn't know if he really agreed with - deserve a good guardian. So Peter could only sigh, really, when the captain was, really, just  _right._

 

“M'kay,” Peter said, maybe a little softer and quieter than he had spoken all that evening. “Thanks, then, I guess. for, I don’t know, looking out for me. Or whatever.”

 

Captain only had a split second to nod before Tony came barreling through the room, arms outstretched for Peter, a maternal sort of cry on his tongue. Peter pouted, just a little, as he was pulled in deep for a hug, which burned a little on his skin in a kind of beautiful way. Tony, murmuring sweet, fatherly promises into Peter’s ears, and he wondered absently if FRIDAY would’ve told Tony, whether or not the captain had asked her to do so.

 

He sort of knew she would've, and he sort of didn't mind at all.

 

* * *

 

  ** _five: march nineteenth, two thousand and nineteen_**

 

A year ago, if you had told Peter that May would be dead and gone by now, and he’d be living with his childhood hero, who - by the way - often sucked at being a dad, Peter would have laughed in your face.  _Why would May be dead?_ he’d say.  _S_ _he’s got me to keep her safe._

 

And she did, she  _did_  have Peter to keep her safe, but superpowers can only protect someone from  _bad_   _guys_ , like aliens or psychopaths or whatever: they certainly couldn’t protect someone from  _bad things_ , like illnesses or stomach aches or  _fucking cancer_. Peter had never felt so  _helpless_ , not since Ben died, but even then, Peter  _could_  have done something, and he _should_  have, too. Here, though, with May, all he could do was hold her hand while she cried, cried about the hair loss and about how pale she was and about the nausea and about the  _I_ _only have a few weeks left on this plane of existence_  that cycled through her head, over and over and over. Peter was  _fucking_  helpless, useless, and  _weak._  He was so weak, he hadn’t  _once_  gone out as Spider-Man since May’s death;  _If he couldn’t save_ her _, how could he ever save_ anyone  _again?_

 

And a year ago, if you had told Peter he would lose May as  _helplessly_ as he lost Ben, as he lost his mom, as he lost his dad - Peter would have laughed in your face. But  _this_ year,  _this_ March, Peter could only remember the day May was diagnosed, how they cried, how he heard May on the phone with Tony, when he was supposed to be asleep, and May asked Tony to  _take care of Peter once I'm gone_ , and Tony promised her he would. Tony  _promised_ he would, Peter heard it, so  _why_ , on March nineteenth, exactly a year after May was diagnosed,  _was he alone?_

 

It was a Tuesday -  _stupid Tuesday_ \- and Peter had no good reason to wake up that morning. FRIDAY called out to him overhead, repeating,  _“Peter, it’s time to wake up,”_ over and over, but Peter didn’t - or maybe  _couldn’t_ \- give a fuck. even when Rhodes knocked on his door, and then Pepper too, Peter just silently pulled his comforter over his head, and shrunk deeper into the blankets.

 

In the back of his mind, he knew he was being difficult. He knew, realistically, he was being a whiny, bratty  _baby_ , and something in his head screamed at him,  _Tony will give you back! Tony will give you away!_ but he ignored that voice, replying only with a,  _S_ _o what?_

 

(He didn’t mean it. If Tony gave him back to social services, Peter’s life would feel  _over,_  but most mornings, his life  _already_ felt over anyways.)

 

After an hour or so of ignoring Pepper, Rhodes,  _and_ FRIDAY, Peter heard a knock on his door, and a voice through the wall, which mumbled, “Peter, kid, can I come in?” Peter didn’t respond, and the door creaked open. The voice, Tony, sat down on his bed, the weight shifting near Peter’s knees.

 

“Pete,” Tony began, “I was eighteen when my mom died. You know the story, thought it was a car accident, turned out to be a super soldier,  _blah blah blah._  But I was angry. I was  _eighteen_ , and m-my mom was  _gone_.” Peter pretended to ignore Tony’s voice cracking at the end, and he squirmed underneath the heavy blanket tucked around him. “I don’t know what you’re going through, Pete, I-I could never even begin to understand. But I  _do_ get losing someone. And I  _get_ being a teenager. A-and you’re not alone, you know? You’ve got me, obviously, you’ve always got me, but Pepper and Happy and Rhodey too, and Ned, and MJ, and FRIDAY - even though she’s not even a human, she’s pretty  _humanlike_ , and  _I_ think that she’s a great friend. A-and you’ve got, I don’t know, uh, Mr. Harrington, and your other nerd friends - those kids from Decathlon, all of ‘em. You’re  _not_ alone, Pete, and you’re  _never_ gonna be alone.”

 

Tony peeled the blanket off of Peter’s body, revealing his unruly, curly hair, and red face, and bloodshot, tear-filled eyes, and laid a gentle, warm hand on Peter’s cheek. “And even if everyone else is gone,” he started, “even if the world is barren and nobody’s left-” Tony choked, and Peter felt a fat tear roll down his cheek- “you  _always_ have me. I’m never, ever going to be gone, Pete.  _Never._ ” He promised.

 

Peter shook his head, and the tears began flowing freely, and sobs wracked his chest. “You can’t guarantee that,” he wailed. “E-everyone I love-”

 

Tony cut him off. “No, none of that  _‘Everyone I love dies’_ bullshit. That’s  _my_ bullshit. I am  _not_ going anywhere, Peter,  _ever_. I am here to stay, and you  _cannot_ convince me otherwise.”

 

Peter didn’t know how to respond. He didn’t  _believe_ Tony, how could he? He was  _scared_ and  _helpless_ and  _hopeless as hell_ , and he didn’t even feel like he mattered anymore. He woke up, feeling unnecessary, feeling unwelcome, feeling like the world was out to get him, and he went through the day feeling the same way, and he fell asleep that way too. Peter felt fucking  _worthless_ half of the time, but there Tony was, with a fierce sort of love in his eyes, promising he’d never leave - Peter didn’t  _believe_ it, but every bone in his body wanted to  _desperately_.

 

In Peter’s silence, Tony promised him again, wrapping his arms around Peter’s chest and leaning down to rest their foreheads together. “I’m never going to leave you, kid,” he swore.  _“I love you.”_

 

Peter  _sobbed_ , he  _wailed_ , he  _screamed_ in pain. It was as if someone had reached into his body and pulled out his heart, twisting his stomach and guts all the way. Tony held him tight, pulled him in firmly and flush against his chest. Even as Peter shook violently, Tony never let go, never even faltered for a moment. Peter hadn’t heard those words -  _I_   _love you_ \- in so long, not since May died. Not that he never  _felt_ loved: on Saturday’s, when Pepper would make him breakfast and watch cartoons with him, or when Rhodes was visiting, and Happy - in his secret jealousy - would take him to ice cream, and on those special Friday nights, when Rhodes would take Peter to arcades and game stores. And Peter certainly didn’t feelunloved by Tony, who had learned, somehow, to love Peter in the ways he craved.  _Before_ Aunt May, Tony’s love language was subtle and quiet and hard to comprehend: he would ruffle Peter’s hair or poke at Peter’s sides or ask him for help in the lab.  _After_ Aunt May, Tony started to hug Peter, ask him about his day, eat dinner with him - he even would curl up next to Peter during movies, let Peter rest his head on Tony’s chest, and by December, Tony would kiss Peter’s forehead every night and tuck him into bed.

 

 _But_  hearing _“I love you”_   _is a lot different than_ meaning _it._

 

Tony  _always_ meant it, even always felt it, whether or not he’d say it. Peter knew that, logically - even then, even  _knowing_ Tony cared, Peter craved to hear those words from him, and from Pepper, Rhodes, and Happy too. Peter, who had forgotten how those words sounded, after all this time away from them,  _wanted_ to hear Tony say it.

 

When the stabbing in his heart faded to a gentler prod, when Peter’s cries sounded more like whimpers, when Peter could  _finally_ breathe again, he nudged at Tony’s face, pushing him away. Tony sat up, looking curiously - almost offended - at Peter. “Thank you,” Peter said, quietly, as if he were afraid. Before Tony could respond, say something stupid like  _don’t thank me_ or  _no, t_ _hank YOU,_  Peter continued:

 

_“Tony? I love you too.”_

 

* * *

 

  ** _plus one: april sixth, two thousand and nineteen_**

 

May was looking forward to Peter’s prom as long as he could remember. When he was fourteen, and first started high school, she told him all about her prom: that was the night she and Ben fell in love, after months of dancing around the idea of dating, like flighty birds. Peter loved to hear those stories, especially when Ben would watch May tell it; how Peter would lie in bed with the comforter pulled up to his chin, and Ben and May would sit next to each other on the narrow bunk bed. Peter would beg May to tell him it again, and Ben would laugh, rub a hand on May’s thigh as she whispered to Peter, always starting out like,  _“Well, we met in August of our senior year…”_

 

For a long time, all Peter wanted was a love story like May and Ben’s; after Ben died, all he wanted was to go back in time, and ask Ben to tell the story one last time; after May died, Peter didn’t really want a prom at all anymore.

 

Midtown was too small for a senior  _and_ a junior prom - it was just combined instead. For Peter’s prom in eleventh grade, a full year after May got sick, the theme was _A Midsummer Night’s Dream,_  like the Shakespeare play. Peter thought it was cute, but whenever he saw the posters in the halls, he could only imagine just how  _much_ May would love it. Before May passed away, Pepper and her would gossip about how cute Peter would look in a suit for prom, so as soon as Peter knew the theme, he texted Pepper; he told himself it was because she wanted to know, but deep down, he knew it was because he wanted her to be thinking about May, just like he was.

 

The closer prom got, the more nervous Peter felt, and the less sure he was. He bought the ticket, just in case, but he was so ready to spend prom night with Rhodes, watching Disney movies instead. MJ hated prom about as passionately as May loved it, so he knew that, if he didn’t want to go, she’d be right there beside him. On the other hand, Ned had heard all of May’s stories too, when he and Ned were younger, and he’d craved the perfect prom night from the movies; Peter didn’t want to take away Ned’s chance for something special like that.

 

So, Peter was  _stuck_ and  _confused_ and  _miserable_ , in the sort of way kids only got when they felt like they’d been left behind in a grocery store or an outlet mall. In his uncertainty, peter turned to, of all people, Tony, for advice and direction.

 

“So, prom’s this week,” Peter said, sitting at the table on a Monday morning, while Tony read the newspaper. Before Peter moved in, he had no idea Tony needed reading glasses, but he, apparently, had the eyesight of a blind, old bat. Tony looked up at Peter and hummed in recognition. “I'm, uh, well, kind of… nervous,” he admitted.

 

Tony furrowed his brow, leaned back in his chair and took off his glasses.  _God,_ Peter thought,  _he looks like such a fucking dad._ “What are you nervous about, kid?”

 

Peter shrugged and squirmed a little under the scrutiny. “Well, I guess, uh… May really liked prom, is all. I'm kind of…” He frowned and chewed lightly on his lip. “I'm kind of worried that it’ll be, like, too much for me? I-if that makes any sense, I guess.”

 

Tony nodded and pursed his lips in thought. “You know,” he started, “when I was in high school, all I wanted was to go to prom, but Howard never let me. Said it was:  _‘just a bunch of dumb, drunk kids with daddy issues’_. Sort of sounds like my kind of party, right?” He chuckled darkly, and Peter cracked a bittersweet grin that bordered on a grimace. “But I never went. I remember, for senior prom, Howard was out of town that weekend. I could’ve snuck out, but I didn’t. I  _wish_ I did, though. It was my last chance to be a kid.”

 

Peter nodded, but he was confused. “Uh, Tony, where are you going with this?”

 

Tony smiled sadly. “It was my last chance to be a kid,” he said. “Peter, you’re the most grown up kid I know. But you’re still a  _kid_. This is your prom. There’s no other chance to go to a junior prom. I'm not saying you  _have_ to go, or even that you  _should,_  but, still-” he sighed, and the air got caught a little in his lungs- “still, I think that May would want you to be a kid for a little while longer."

 

Moments later, Pepper snapped the photo of Peter, tucked deeply in Tony’s warm arms, with his face squished against Tony’s chest, and their legs, ever so slightly, tangled together.

 

Peter visited the cemetery that Friday; May was buried next to Ben, and they shared a headstone. Peter, with a bouquet of red, white and pink carnations and roses, sat down quietly just above the spot he vividly remembered to be where May was buried. “Hey, May,” he whispered. “Hey, Ben.” He shuffled in his spot, curled his knees up to his chest and pulled them in tight.

 

“Prom’s tomorrow,” he said. “It’s tomorrow, and I was really sad at first because you guys love prom, and I wanted you to be there with me. But, I was thinking and I talked to Tony and stuff, an-and I think that you both would want me to go. If I could ask you, I would, but I don’t really know how to, so I’m just going with my gut here.” He cleared his throat. "Prom will be fun, I think. I don’t have a date or whatever, it’s just me, Ned, and MJ - but it’s going to be fun.” He sighed, groaned even. “It  _has_ to be fun. I will  _make_ it fun, I promise. I’m gonna do it for you, a-and for Tony, too.”

 

"I promise,” he whispered once more, laid his flowers down, and left.

 

That night, Ned and MJ came by with tons of ice cream and movies, and spent the night. They stayed up until close to three, when Tony came down to scold - jokingly, of course - Peter for being up so late. The three of them slept in the living room, just underneath the television, in a fort compiled of blankets and pillows and some futon Peter managed to find, deep in one of the less dusty storage rooms of the tower. On Saturday, before the afternoon drew close, the three teenagers joined Tony in his lab, and Peter taught them all - Tony included - how to make Spider-Man’s web fluid. Then, Pepper whisked MJ away to do her make up - which, if it were anyone else, MJ would’ve hated it, but it was  _Pepper freaking Potts_ , her icon and crush. Ned and Peter lazed around for a while, before Tony and Rhodes realized and flipped out, dragging them to get dressed and presentable.

 

Tony cried like a baby when Pepper took the pictures. Peter’s face was  _bright red,_  and Rhodes promised he’d never stop teasing the both of them.  _“Even on my damn deathbed,”_ he swore,  _“I will be laughing at you two.”_

 

Prom wasn’t even that fun. It was loud and crowded and hot; Peter forgot that his enhanced senses, like, existed, so he wasn’t fully prepared for how  _overwhelming_ it really was. When he got a little notification from FRIDAY that the Avengers needed him - that’s right, the  _Avengers_ , his childhood legends, needed  _Peter Parker_ , of all people - he was more than happy to say goodbye to Ned and MJ, who were also looking to be a little worn out, and change into the suit he had stuffed in his locker. He hadn’t gone out as  _Spider-Man_ since may died; New York went for almost a year without him.

 

They say,  _it takes a village,_  and that’s certainly not untrue, but doesn’t it take a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, too?

 

* * *

 

_**fin.** _

**Author's Note:**

> i hope that was? ok? ahaha! it took me like three days to write honestly which is really short for me teehee. i been really invested in this ficlet since i came up with the idea for it! i was kind of lost on the plus one, so it's not even...like...good...but. idk. i appreciated it anyway. i hope you all enjoyed :))) leave me some kudos if u likey, por favor!!! & comment something u liked abt it that would make my whole day! i hope u have a wonderful day friends :D
> 
> tumblr: peterporkerrr.tumblr.com  
> twitter: @littlebit9043  
> instagram: @elizabeth.kathleen


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